The small space shifted around her again, robbing her of breath, and she gasped.
Think, Ellie, think. Breathe through the panic.
Slowly her breathing steadied, and she remembered a class discussion at the academy. Someone had asked the instructor how long a person could survive if they were buried alive. The time frame varied depending on a person’s body size, and rate of oxygen consumption per minute. She couldn’t remember the exact formula, but she thought a person could survive about five hours on average.
A shudder coursed through her. She couldn’t stay in here for five hours, couldn’t just lie here and slowly suffocate in the dark. Perspiration beaded on her forehead, sweat trickling down her back.
Frantically she ran her fingers along the interior, this time focusing on the edge of the coffin lid.
Forcing slow, even breaths in to calm herself and preserve air, she fumbled across the lining. Finally, she felt a tiny metal clasp. She almost cried with relief, feeling the cool steel in her hand.
Running her fingers around it, she pushed the edge and shoved the top of the casket at the same time. But the clasp broke, snapping in her fingers, and the lid refused to budge.
Her breath quickened, and silent tears ran down her face.
She was trapped.
Ninety-Four
Finton’s Final Resting Home
Derrick glared at Sheriff Waters, who’d insisted on driving and checking out the funeral home with him.
“Did you know about this?” he asked him.
“Detective Reeves doesn’t share well,” Waters said in an irritated voice. “And I was checking out a couple of Carrie Winters’ clients.”
“Any leads?” Derrick could barely concentrate for the worry eating at him.
The sheriff shook his head. “For a hooker, she seemed to have morals. No extortion or threats to expose her clients. And I ran backgrounds on the few names but no one with a history of violence against women.”
That they knew of. After all, men with money could pay to have their illicit activities covered up.
The sheriff’s siren wailed as they careened into the parking lot for the funeral home.
“Ellie’s Jeep,” Derrick said, pointing to her parked vehicle.
“I’ll look around out here if you want to check inside.” Bryce pulled his weapon and scoped out the property. Woods backed up to the brick structure, heavy gray clouds overhead threatening a downpour and casting the exterior in deep pockets of gray.
Senses honed, Derrick held his gun at the ready while Bryce headed toward the woods. First, he climbed the steps to the outside entrance of the apartment but found it was locked and boarded up. A quick look through the window revealed it was empty, so he went back down the steps. If Finton had someone here, he’d probably put them in the basement. Ellie might be there now in trouble.
Walking around the outside of the building, he checked doors and windows for a point of entry. He finally found a lock broken, the window half open and dusted with footprints. Two sets. A woman’s boots and a larger set that had to belong to a man.
Crawling inside, he shined his flashlight around the dank interior, the acrid odors of body waste and chemicals permeating the concrete walls so strongly that he briefly gagged.
Moving slowly, he listened for any indication that Ellie was inside, or that another woman might be here needing help. The furnace clanged, and somewhere he heard a mouse skittering along the floor. He followed the hall to the prep room and looked inside, but it appeared to be empty. Still, he ducked inside and checked the storage room, careful not to touch any of the instruments or supplies.
Forcing himself not to think about the fact that this place had seen countless dead bodies, he continued on to the refrigerated room.
Dread made his stomach cramp, but he opened the heavy door and looked inside. A blast of frigid air assaulted him, but the steel shelves and tables were bare.
A noise from down the hall made him step back outside, closing the door then creeping past an office. Eyes peeled for an ambush, he eased open the door and shined the light inside. Dingy yellowed walls, a cold tile floor, and a room full of caskets.
There was the noise again, and he spotted McClain dragging himself up from behind one of the coffins and staggering toward the door.
“McClain?” Derrick went still. “Where the hell is Ellie?”
The ranger rubbed the back of his head with his hand. Looking confused and dazed, he slumped against a gray coffin, leaning over as if